


You'll Be Okay

by simthemuse



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Arthur Returns, Blood, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Dehumanization, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Graphic Imagery, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Merlin, Implied Merthur, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Reincarnation, Torture, arthur & merlin fluff, executions, good!Morgana, he deserves it, merlin gets many hugs, referenced freylin, referenced gwencelot, referenced mercelot, referenced percelot, yeah lets just say hes having a bad day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 01:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20145385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simthemuse/pseuds/simthemuse
Summary: Watching people die is the hardest part about being immortal.Opening up about his feelings with Arthur is, somehow, even harder.





	You'll Be Okay

**Author's Note:**

> ANOTHER fic where immortal!Merlin angsts over his long life and gets comforted through the power of friendship and group hugs? On MY ao3 account? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> Also, if I misrepresent PTSD and panic attacks, please let me know. I have my own experiences to work off of, as well as my research, but there's always room for improvement!
> 
> [WARNING: This contains graphic imagery, blood and gore, painful deaths/executions, and overall a lot of death, war, and angst. Also, panic attacks n' PTSD n' junk like that. It's pretty dark, folks. Read at your own discretion.]

Much to his own personal embarrassment, Merlin spent some of his first 500-and-some-odd years of immortality as a lakeside hermit. Just sitting there in his hut, abandoning the world he once knew and loved in favour of a lonelier, more jaded reality. If watching Arthur die was painful, watching all of Camelot die - slowly, one by one - was _ heartbreaking. _

Will was a difficult loss to get over. It was his first death, after all. But Gaius held him as he cried, and Arthur gave him the afternoon off (he was still too much of a prat to give full days, back then), and Morgana and Gwen took him on one of their afternoon picnics where the three of them talked about what it was like to lose loved ones. Gwen gave him a little handful of flowers she’d picked, which he dried and pressed into the pages of a leatherbound journal. 

Freya was another tough loss, because he had never loved someone quite so deeply and intimately before. But yet again, Gaius was there, and though he couldn’t tell anyone about his tryst with a cursed druid girl, they all managed to brighten his day just by being there, by laughing and joking with him. 

Then came Balinor. He wanted nothing more than to run home to Ealdor, to share memories and tears with his mother - but Arthur needed him in Camelot to help with the reconstruction efforts. And after inadvertently causing all this pain by releasing the dragon in the first place, it was the least he could do. He distracted himself from the loss of the father he never knew by comforting others. He wrote down the names of everyone the dragon killed and committed them to memory, then stacked up a stone pile to commemorate the dead. They were big stones, and his arms ached under the weight, but it was nothing in comparison to the pain he had brought upon Camelot with his foolishness. Nothing compared to the pain he deserved.

Just as he was planning a trip to Ealdor to speak to Hunith, Morgana came back, and she was evil this time so he couldn’t put her out of his sight for so much as a moment. 

Merlin lost a lot of good friends - guards, knights, nobles, and peasants alike - in Morgana and Morgause’s first invasion. But he picked himself back up and did what he could, comforting those who were mourning and rebuilding what had been destroyed. Standing by Arthur’s side, guiding him and holding him upright as he slid into his father’s position.

Lancelot was a heavy blow. When he died, Merlin almost didn’t want to get back up again. He and Lancelot were inseparable. Always whispering in the back during patrols, always throwing clever looks at each other when magic came up in conversation. Sometimes Merlin would spend the night in Lancelot’s new room, and the both of them would sleep on the floor as Lancelot waxed poetic about how much he loved Gwen - and how much it hurt for that love to go unreciprocated.

But the other knights were there, and this time Arthur too, because Arthur was getting better at this interpersonal thing now since pairing off with Gwen. And they all helped him get through it, and carry on to smile another day.

Gwen, Percival, and Merlin - the three who knew Lancelot best - would sometimes spend nights at Gwen’s place getting drunk and sharing memories. As it turned out, they had all felt some kind of budding attraction to him at some point. It was something to bond over, at least. 

Gwen didn’t _ die _, per se, but she did get banished. And that was almost worse, knowing she was out there but not knowing if she was alright or if she was even alive. So Merlin cast a discreet spell - a copper ring on his finger that would grow hot based on how much pain she was in. Sometimes it got so hot he wanted to take it off, but refused out of a resolution to be there for her in whatever capacity he could manage. It was a new kind of suffering though, to know she was in pain but remain unable to do anything about it. Sometimes, when it was hurting especially bad, he would whisper platitudes (you’re okay, I’m here, it’ll all be alright) into the metal band and pray she got his message. 

On the night before her wedding, he came to visit her. They spoke about many things: Agravaine, Arthur, her nervousness about being queen, and even her time in exile. She mentioned to him that while it had broken her heart to be alone, she never really _ felt _alone. Sometimes it almost felt like she had a guardian angel, speaking into her ear and holding her hand every step of the way.

Merlin smiled incessantly for a month after hearing that. This drove Arthur mad to no end - which only encouraged him to smile even brighter.

Merlin didn’t lose many people for a while after that. A few knights died in the occasional battle or skirmish, and Lord Wilker - a good friend, and Arthur’s number one supporter within the council - passed from old age. But on the whole, he spent a good three or so years without any new deaths to grieve.

But then came Mordred. And with Mordred came nightly visions of Arthur dying again, again, again. And he couldn’t wake Arthur up in the morning without wanting to cry out in relief because _ it was just a dream after all _. He would just stand there, watching Gwen and Arthur sleep, smiling through the tears because they were safe and happy, and he would move heaven and Earth to keep them that way.

Elyan was the next to die. It was a heavy hit, as heavy as Lancelot’s death, because they'd been friends for so long. Elyan and Merlin considered themselves brothers even, and often joked about who would be the better uncle once Gwen and Arthur finally conceived. Merlin was the one who helped Elyan make amends with his sister and settle into Camelot after the Fyrien incident. Elyan was the one who stood up for Merlin when people picked on him for his status. Losing Elyan was like losing a little piece of himself.

But Merlin had lost many people before, so he was no stranger to grieving. 

And besides, Gwen needed him. Especially after being enchanted and killing Tyr, and trying to kill Arthur and Merlin. He was there for her, forgiving her, assuring her. The two of them would go on picnics out by the lake where they buried Elyan, laughing and weeping for long hours as they spoke about everything and nothing at all.

Helping Gwen was a good distraction from the pain of losing Elyan. And it was a great distraction from the trauma of watching Arthur die repeatedly in his dreams.

But then, the dreams weren’t just dreams anymore. They were real. And Arthur was wounded, and Mordred was dead, and Morgana was dead, and - 

And Arthur was dead.

Merlin hadn’t felt hollowness like that before. Losing Will, Freya, Balinor, Lancelot, Elyan, _ Daegal _ \- none of that had prepared him for this. Like someone had gutted him out and scraped his intestines along every rock and rusty blade in all of Albion. Like someone had torn off his arms and devoured his heart, then stuffed his empty body with hay. 

Because he was a scarecrow. Filled to the brim with scratchy, yellow nothings. Wrapped in a facade of canvas and twine. Trussed up on a wooden stake and abandoned in the fields. 

As scarecrows guarded crops from crows, Merlin guarded Camelot from hostile forces. 

Well, he tried anyway.

To add insult to injury, Gwaine was dead too. Merlin decided to put on as many bright smiles and stupid jokes as he could, to make up for the volatile silence left behind by Gwaine and Arthur. And though he did a good job of cheering up his friends, it also created a facade that convinced everyone he was alright.

And he wasn’t alright, even though he had to be. So he stood there tall and empty, like a scarecrow, protecting his friends as they grew into tall and wonderful people around him. As they healed and mended and became their best selves. As they moved on and let go.

For a bit, Merlin managed to move on and let go too. 

But then Gaius died.

And then Leon died too.

He carried a limp and bloody Percival across the war zone, after countless healing spells did nothing to dent the gaping hole in his chest. He needed to get to Iseldir, to his apprentice Niniane, to all the healers. Percival couldn’t die. 

While carrying Percival to safety, in a way that hauntingly reminded him of Arthur’s final days, they stumbled upon Leon. He was a bloody, broken corpse at their feet. Arms and legs mangled, twisted, contorted into shapes that no body should be able to fit into. Eyes vacant. Face swollen and bruised, frozen into an eternal grimace of agony.

Merlin didn’t get to say goodbye.

He reached down to close Leon’s eyes, grateful that Percival was unconscious so he wouldn’t have to see this.

But his efforts to protect and save Percival didn’t matter in the end, did they? Days later, Percival died from his wounds. Merlin got to say goodbye this time, but Percival was too comatose to hear him or respond.

Merlin got his magic restrained by the Saxons. They knew who and what he was, and planned ahead. They bound him in those horrible, terrible chains, and strung him up like a piece of meat in a butcher shop. The Saxon King ousted Gwen, and executed her for all to see. And for all that Merlin raged against his captivity, the King forced his head forward and pried his eyes open so he would see Gwen’s head roll.

It wasn’t a clean swipe. The executioner had to hack away at her neck multiple times before it finally came off. After three blows, she was dead. 

Even a millennium later, Merlin still couldn’t wash her blood out of his dreams.

And then they tried and failed to execute him too, trying all sorts of things - poison, fire, beheading, drowning, sword - but he was immortal. None of it worked. 

That didn’t mean it was any less painful, though. If he never again felt the sensation of his head reattaching to his neck, it would be too soon.

The Saxon King kept him as a little pet. A trophy to keep in a cage and pull out when there were guests. Killing him again and again was a special sort of entertainment for visiting nobles. 

The Saxon King’s youngest son rather enjoyed setting him loose into the woods and hunting him for sport, shooting arrow after arrow through his body as a means of curing boredom.

One day, though, he got away.

The prince was hunting him again, and Merlin was running again, when he encountered a unicorn. The unicorn bowed to him, offered him its back, and took him far, far away from Camelot. To Lake Avalon. 

Anhora arrived not long after, to remove the chains around his wrists and nurse him back to health. But he didn’t stay longer than needed.

And so it was for this reason that Merlin stayed by the lake, in a little thatch hut, almost catatonic and wishing for death.

The Crusades showed up, and Merlin tried to shut the war out. But a young man had stumbled into his home, and Merlin took quite a liking to him, and couldn’t bear the thought of ‘Isaac’ going out to fight in that bloody war on his own. 

Merlin didn’t do any fighting himself. Preferred not to align himself with any one side, as everyone was particularly barbaric in this fight. He just stood by Isaac’s side, protecting him and using subtle magic to heal anyone else along the way.

Isaac died. 

But it wasn’t all for naught, he supposed. Being with Isaac taught him an important lesson: as long as he was helping others, he could forget the pain left behind by the ones he couldn’t save. He could wholly devote every fiber of his being to making sure people’s lives were good. And when one person died, he’d just move on to the next one.

Helping people was a distraction from what he’d lost. 

Jennifer. Wilhelm. Kamala. Ahmed. Miriam. Santiago. Hiro. Adam. To name just a few. 

Every few years, his friend would die, and he’d go seek out a new one. Someone who was broken and arrogant and an absolute wreck of a person, someone to love and cherish and fix, someone to be his new Arthur - 

No. He couldn’t think like that. There was only ever one Arthur.

In 2018, Richard Tenner died. They had fought together in WWII, and Merlin was proud to say that Richard lasted longer than most of his friends. He was 104 when he finally died from cancer.

Merlin didn’t stay in the hospital room during his last moments. The Tenners needed this time with their father, grandfather, uncle. And sure, he was a family friend. But a man’s last moments weren’t for family friends, just family.

He sat out in the hall, trying not to strain his ears against the sounds of sobbing children and flatlining machines.

Richard’s middle child, a demure mother of two named Heather, sat down next to him with mascara running in thick black trails down her face. She handed him a weathered, tattered slip of paper. A photograph.

His heart clenched in recognition, but he did not cry. He had run out of tears back in the 1400s. 

It was a black-and-white photo of Richard, Merlin, and a few other war buddies. All wearing helmets and slinging guns over their shoulders. Despite the wreckage surrounding them and the bandages covering their bodies, they all had bright smiles on their faces.

Heather explained that Richard always kept this photo in his wallet, and that she figured he would want Merlin to have it. 

So Merlin took it, and put it in his wallet, and would pull it out to stare fondly at it every night before bed. 

The Tenners knew about his immortality, because Richard didn’t like keeping secrets from his family. They were all accepting enough, and the little kids enjoyed all the magic he would conjure for them. Everyone promised him to keep in touch. He was a good friend, after all. 

He was closest to Heather, though. She was a widow herself, and it was Merlin who had comforted her at her husband’s grave, and had picked up her kids from school while she was busy attending her therapy sessions. It was a strange bond they shared, but it was theirs.

Walking home from the funeral service, Merlin encountered a man. He was familiar, with blonde hair and blue eyes and a muscular arm wrapped around the shoulders of a black-haired woman. From their attire and demeanors, he could guess that they were visiting the grave of someone who had been dead for years.

Their eyes - blue and green respectively - lit up in mutual shock at his appearance. Then they started hugging and crying, and they invited him over for dinner to catch up on old times. 

Arthur Penning was a 31-year-old real estate agent with two golden retrievers named Scotty and Bertrand. He had a girlfriend named Gwen Lace. Living in the same apartment block as him were Lance Cortez, Gwaine Wilson, Percy Orwell, Elyan Lace, and Leon Harding. 

Morgan Penning was his 35-year-old sister who was roommates - and perhaps something more - with Elena Schwartz, a pairing that amused Merlin to no end.

In the spirit of the good old days, everyone pooled their money together and bought a big old house to share. Morgan and Elena shared the attic, Arthur and Gwen got the master bedroom, and everyone else got what was left. Gwaine called dibs on the room with the fancy windows, but Merlin was too happy to fight him on it. Elyan _wasn't _too happy to fight him, though, and they argued over who got the fancy room for the better part of an hour.

Gwaine won.

Chores were delegated through the employment of a chore wheel and chore chart, hammered into the living room wall where no one could ignore it. Arthur griped about how it ruined the feng shui of the place, and Merlin just made fun of him for being so worked up about it.

But for all that life was good again, it wasn’t perfect. Merlin had stopped running, which meant his past could catch up to him. And it took every ounce of self-control not to pack up his things and leave his friends again, if only so his trauma would leave him alone.

He put a silencing spell on the walls in his room. He tended to have rather vocal nightmares, especially ones involving WWII or the Saxon occupation, and it hurt to think of other people needing to comfort him. He couldn’t afford to be comforted, because if he accepted comfort then everything he’d been through would finally sink in and then he would _ break _.

Merlin couldn’t break. He couldn’t spend 500 years sitting by a lake again. He couldn’t live like the miserable lump he used to be. 

His friends had problems, and he wouldn’t dare add to their burdens with a burden of his own.

No. He’d been alone with his thoughts for 1500 years now. He could do this.

It was a hot summer evening, barely two months after the move-in. A Saturday night, which meant it was his turn to make breakfast in the morning. Everyone had spent the night watching some horror/thriller/slasher type movie. One of the victims was running through the woods, with the axe-wielding maniac close behind.

Morgan, as much as she acted tough, was clinging desperately to Elena throughout the whole affair. Gwaine teased her for it, but then she threatened him - so his jests didn’t last long. 

Something about the film set him off, though. He tried to focus on the characters and the plot, but his ears were stuffed with cotton. Like his head was underwater, and someone had stuck razors in his chest. 

_ Running, panting. His wrists are linked together and his body is covered in thick scars. His skin is blackened where the magic-restraining cuffs dig into his flesh. _

_ The forest is eerily quiet, save for the Saxon prince’s deep-throated taunts wafting up to his ears. “I’m gonna catch you, little lamb. It’s always more exciting when you run.” _

Arthur’s hand was on his shoulder. “You okay?”

He jolted under the contact. “Hmm? Oh, yeah. This movie’s - er, it’s pretty intense.”

Arthur just rolled his eyes and ruffled Merlin’s hair, mumbling something affectionate under his breath before refocusing on the movie.

_ Contact. Touching. Hugging. Holding. Edward’s hands are cradling him as he bleeds out. _

_ “No no no, come on Allen, you can’t die on me!” _

_ Why is Edward calling him ‘Allen’? Oh, right, because that’s his name. Allen Tucker. But not his real name. What’s his real name again? It’s been so long, he hardly remembers anymore. _

_ Edward stands up to carry Allen to safety. A stray bullet shoots through his neck. His now-dead his body flops onto Allen’s. Allen lays, pinned to the ground by Edward’s bulk. He is too weak to say anything, to shout out as his friends search for him. They do not find him. They label him as MIA and leave him for - _

“Merlin,” Arthur said again, and this time his voice was heavier, more concerned. His eyes weren’t on the screen anymore, but on Merlin. 

Yes, that was his name. His name wasn’t Allen, or Horatio, or William, or - 

“_ Merlin _,” Arthur repeated. His hands were gripping Merlin’s shoulders now. 

Yes. His name was Merlin. Merlin. Emrys. Arthur’s manservant. But not his manservant, manservants didn’t exist anymore. Arthur wasn’t a king, he didn’t need one. 

Didn’t need Merlin.

“I think I just need to sleep,” he said, edging away from Arthur, and the couch, and everyone else. “Long day.”

Gwaine cast a wicked, teasing grin at him. “Aw, movie too scary for you, Mer?”

Merlin chuckled and rolls his eyes, but said nothing aside from the standard, ‘good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite’. 

And then he was alone again. Alone. In his room. 

Laying on his simple, twin-sized bed with a striped duvet, he pulled his wallet off the night stand. The margin label on the black-and-white photo read:

**From left to right, back row - Jeremy Wire, Alex DuPont, William Quincey, Richard Tenner**

**From let to right, front row - Oliver Burns, Fred Ingram, Allen Tucker**

He smiled, thumb tracing along the edges of their faces. Faces of dead people. None of them were alive any more. Jeremy Wire had died just four months ago. Heart attack.

Merlin should have been grateful for the photo. He didn’t have photos of anyone else, after all. Most of his friends had lived and died long before the invention of the camera. Sure, there were some paintings of the Camelot crew that he’d gotten commissioned during the Renaissance, and some of his friends were famous enough to have their paintings in museums - but that was it. He couldn’t remember what Phil or Sadie or Eun-Jeong looked like. 

Hell, he struggled to remember what _ Arthur _looked like until he saw his reincarnation. 

Merlin almost didn’t want to sleep. His dreams were filled with death. His dreams were the only place where he had to stop running, stop avoiding the past. In his dreams, he was forced to face the truth.

But at the same time, he didn’t feel like going downstairs and explaining to the class why he needed a cup of coffee at one in the morning, especially after telling them he wanted to sleep.

So Merlin took in a deep breath, mustered all the courage he had, and closed his eyes. 

_ “I trusted you.” _

_ Dying, grabbing hands, blood smearing along his tunic. A cold, cold weight on his lap. _

_ “...thank you…” _

_ Gwen is screaming. Blood is splattering everywhere. The executioner is merciless. He tries to look away, but the Saxon King’s sweaty fingers are pressed into his eyelids and forcing them open. The restraints burn black rings into his flesh. _

_ Mary Jane is dead. That’s what everyone’s saying. They say the Ripper got to her. But that can’t be true, _ it can’t be _ . But he can’t deny it. The police begrudgingly allow him onto the crime scene to see the body. Is it wrong of him to be relieved that it’s not the bloodiest thing he’s ever seen? Does it make him a monster to feel happy that her death isn’t as painful as Isaac’s or Gwaine’s were? _

_ The Saxon prince lands a hit. An arrow between the eyes. Merlin’s world goes fuzzy and white, but in the edges of his perception he hears the prince cheering in excitement. _

_ “Another excellent strike, sire,” his servant tells him. _

_ “Of course it was excellent,” the prince says, and how dare he sound so much like - _

_ Arthur. _

_ Arthur. _

_ Arthur. _

_ Dead. Blood. Stabbed. Mordred. Blood. Blood. _

_ Bloodbloodbloodblo- _

_ He’s been beheaded again. That’s a favourite of the piggish Saxon King. He squeals in delight, along with his piglet daughters, as Merlin’s flesh and bones suction back together. It’s fascinating, isn’t it, watching him suffer so. _

_ His name is Allen. And Tom. And Horatio. _

_ But what’s his real name? What was the name his mother gave him? Does he have a mother? What does she look like? How did she die? _

_ It’s old age. She dies with grey hair and wrinkled skin, and she dies happy. Gaius had died the same way. Happy. _

_ Merlin doesn’t find much left to be happy about. _

_ It’s WWII. With every body strewn around him, Merlin hates the Nazis even more. Is it possible to hate them more than he already does? Apparently. _

_ There’s a bomb. It kills him. His pieces are everywhere. _

_ It takes him days, agonizing days, to come back together. His blood stuffs itself back into his veins, his bones crackle as they realign, and everything is sick and morbid as the universe proves just how much it’s willing to make him hurt. _

_ When will Arthur show up? _

_ He’s not coming, is he? _

_ Arthur. _

_ Arthur. _

_ Arthur. _

_ “Merlin!” _

He jolted awake, flinging into an upright position. Two strong hands forced him back down. 

“It’s alright,” said a strong, familiar voice that made his heart ache. Why? Was it the voice of someone he’d lost? How did they die? How was he able to hear them now if they were dead?

“It’s alright, you’ll be okay,” the voice said. It was spoken just like Merlin, back when Merlin still whispered into that enchanted ring of his, back when Gwen was lost and alone and in need of comfort.

But this meant someone was comforting _ Merlin _. No, no, that didn’t make sense. No one ever comforted him. The only time anyone ever touched him and held him down like this was when - 

The prince.

He was back in the forest, then. The Saxon prince must have been hunting him, it seemed. Yes, that explained the hands roughly holding him down as he thrashed and kicked and screamed.

“Let me go!” he shouted out. “Don’t hurt me! Please!”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” said the voice. It sounded frantic and annoyed and heartbroken. “Just calm down, Merlin. You’re safe.”

No. It was a lie. The prince always lied. He always tried to calm him down just to see the betrayal on Merlin’s face when he ended up stabbing him not moments later. 

_ Calm down. _ That’s what his guards always told him as they pulled him out of his cage so this week’s visiting noble could kill him and watch him come back to life again. 

“You can’t kill me!” Merlin shrieked. He knew it was futile, though. This was a game to them. They knew he couldn’t die, they _ counted _on it. 

“Just...please stop h-hurting me,” he hiccuped. But really, what was the point in asking? They didn’t care for him. He was just an object to them. A toy. A pet. A little glass figurine they loved to break. 

Huh. No one was dragging him roughly by the scalp and tossing him onto the stone cold floor of the throne room. No one was yanking him up to his feet and then forcing him down into a bow in honour of the new guests. 

Maybe this was Trish, then. Was it feeding time? Trish only came by at feeding times. But...but they hadn’t fed him in years, ever since they realized he couldn’t die from starvation.

Trish was nice. She was always nice to him. She would run her fingers through his hair, whisper to him that it would be alright, tend to his injuries, and even sneak him bits of fruit. When he had been beaten up by guards within an inch of his life, simply because they were bored and knew he could take it, she rushed to his side and wept onto his swollen face. And she said, _ “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t save you.” _

“You’re okay, Merlin,” said the person - Trish? - as they pulled him into their arms, and Merlin stopped fighting against them. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

Huh. This person didn’t sound, smell, or feel like Trish. Too masculine.

“You’re safe,” the person said, sounding like they were on the verge of tears. 

Merlin dared pry his wet eyes open, and through the haziness of the dark room he was in - not his cage, apparently - there was a face. 

A body, clothed in strange material. Weird contraptions all scattered about a rather spacious room. What was this place? This wasn't Camelot.

Oh. Right. He wasn’t in Camelot anymore. The Saxon King died centuries ago, along with that disgusting son of his. He was at home, in the 21st century, and all his friends were back. Gwaine and Percy and Leon and Elyan and Lance and Gwen and - 

Arthur.

Arthur.

Arthur.

Arthur, who was sitting on his small but cozy bed and holding him, blankets and pillows tossed haphazardly onto the floor surrounding his mattress.

Realizing that _ Arthur Arthur Arthur _had been here the whole time, had held him as he panicked and slipped into a bout of trauma, he pushed himself away.

Merlin cleared his throat. “Uh. Er. Mind, uh, telling me - what are - what are you doing in my room?” 

Arthur stared at him blankly. Well, not _ blankly _per se. Dumbfoundedly. Scrutinizingly. Painfully. Remorsefully. Mournfully?

After a moment of silence that lasted longer than either of them were comfortable with, Arthur said, “You were acting suspicious when you went up to bed, so I - er, so _ Gwen _asked me to come check on you.”

Merlin bristled. “Oh, so I need a babysitter now?”

“Maybe you do!” Arthur exclaimed, and he was no longer sitting on the bed anymore. “Because I come in here to make sure you’re not doing anything stupid, not _ keeping any more secrets _ , and what do I find? I find you thrashing in your sleep and _ crying _ ! And when I tried to wake you up, you were begging me _ not to hurt you! _”

“It was a nightmare.” Merlin frowned, petulant, with his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t need to explain himself to Arthur. The contents of Merlin’s mind were none of his ex-kingly business.

“Well I got that, _ Merlin _ . Mind explaining to me _ what the hell it was about _?!”

At this, Merlin rose to his feet as well. “Why do you care?! I can handle it!”

Arthur scoffed. “Oh. Right. Because _ that _was clearly handling it. Let no one accuse you of healthily coping with your emotions.”

“Like you’re any better! You’ve had nightmares, Arthur! I’ve seen you cry and scream in your sleep before! Why is it any different when _ I _do it?”

Merlin expected Arthur to blow his fuse. To say something about keeping secrets, or talking back to his king, or how Merlin had no right to get bad nightmares when everyone else had much more tangible problems, and how dare Merlin occupy all their time with his issues. How dare Merlin slow down long enough for his past to catch up to him. How dare Merlin be anything other than happy and supportive. 

He’d known Arthur for well over ten years at this point. He had shouted at Arthur, so Arthur was supposed to shout even louder, and explode, and threaten Merlin with banishment or something.

He didn’t.

Arthur withdrew. His hands, which were fists, fell lax and limp at his sides. His eyes turned somber, and his face drew into the sort of look someone gets when they’re standing at a lover’s grave.

“Because…” Arthur said. He choked up. “...because_ I’ve_ always had _ you _to help me when I wake up, Merlin.”

Oh.

Merlin wasn’t expecting that.

“It’s my job -”

Arthur held up a hand to interrupt him. “You’ve saved my life, my kingdom, my friends - more times than I can count. Every time I doubt myself, every time I’m sad or upset, you’re there. You keep me in line, and you lift me up out of my darkest moments. You...I _ need _you, Merlin.”

_ “Why are you doing this? Acting like a servant?” _

_ “Not once have you sought any credit.” _

_ “I want you to always be you.” _

_ “I’m going to say something I’ve never told you before.” _

_ “Thank you.” _

_ Blood. Blood. Blood. Limp hands. Lifeless body. Cold flesh. Empty eyes. _

_ “Thank you.” _

His throat closed up as the memories flooded into his lungs. “A-Arthur, don’t -”

“But...you never let me do the same. You’re hurting, Merlin, don’t try to deny it. Why can’t you just _ trust _me for once and let me…” His breathing hitched. “...let me in?”

Oh god. What a horrible person he was. He was making Arthur emotional. Arthur, the poster-child of mascunility and machismo. The paragon of confidence, stoicism, and bravery. He was a knight and a king. Knights didn’t cry. Knights didn’t even come close to crying. And look what Merlin had done to him.

Merlin always admired Arthur for his togetherness with his emotions.

Merlin wore his heart on his sleeve, no matter how hard he tried to hide his pain. For someone whose life depended on subterfuge, he was annoyingly _ bad _at it. But Arthur? Arthur knew how to keep it all locked in. Bundle his pain into a ball and chuck it out the window. 

For fifteen hundred years, Merlin tried to figure how he did it, to no avail. 

“I trust you. You’re my friend,” Merlin said. His mouth was dry, but his eyes were anything but. Strange. It had been so long since last he cried. “And I trust you with my life.”

“But not with your secrets,” he said bitterly. “_ Never _with your secrets. It’s like the magic all over again.”

“I trust you,” said Merlin. “But I don’t...I don’t want to talk about it, alright? I’d really rather just forget about it and move on.” Arthur didn’t seem content with this answer, so Merlin added, “It’s just - fifteen hundred years is a long time, Arthur. More than enough time to get into a few sticky situations. I _ really _would rather if we didn’t talk about it.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to cross his arms. “You always make _ me _talk about my problems!”

“Because you’re my friend,” Merlin said. “And it’s my job to look after you.”

“Well, then it’s _ my _ job to look after _ you _,” Arthur insisted. His voice was raising again. “Friendship is a two-way street, Merlin!”

_ “I promised Penny I’d look after you!” _

_ “Go! I’ll be fine, just leave me and run!” _

_ “You know I can’t do that.” _

_ “No! Ethan! Ethan!” _

_ Gunshots. _

Merlin hardened his face in the hope that Arthur wouldn’t see the memory-induced pain in his eyes. Too late. 

No. No one could look after him. No on was supposed to. Merlin was alone, and he was always alone. People who looked after him died. 

Mortal lives were short. They couldn’t waste what little time they had worrying about him. He was immortal. He was fine. He had to be fine. Because if he wasn’t fine…

_ No. _ Arthur wouldn’t turn into another Ethan, or another Edward, or any of the other million people who died _ protecting him. _

Merlin shoved his hand into Arthur’s chest to push him away a bit, hopefully closer to the door. Arthur looked up at him in shock. “This isn’t something you can fix, _ sire _. So leave me the hell alone, and mind your own business.”

And though it brought great sadness to everyone involved, Arthur left. He looked like he wanted to say something, but just pressed his lips and walked out the door.

_ “I’m sorry I can’t save you.” _

Merlin was alone.

He was always alone.

It was better this way.

Alone meant there was no one to lose.

_ “Take a good long look, little freak.” The Saxon King’s hands grope at the sides of his face, nails scratching into his eyelids and keeping them in place. His eyes burn and water, but the King won’t allow them to close. _

_ The executioner lifts up his axe. Gwen is wheezing bloodily. Still alive, but not for long. _

_ “Everyone will die,” he sneers. “Everyone you love will die. Just like Gwenny here.” _

_ “Let me go, you monster, and we’ll see who’s _ really _ going to die today.” _

_ “What does it matter? She’ll die eventually. It makes no difference when.” _

_ “Go to hell.” _

_ The third blow lands. Gwen is dead. But her head is still attached by bloody strands of flesh. Blood pools all around her. _

_ The King laughs. “Oh, I will. But not until I’ve broken you.” _

  
Merlin collapsed to his knees, head in his hands. The door was still wide open from when Arthur left. The room was quiet, dark, empty. Just like his cage, that harsh and empty cage where they kept him chained, chained, chained. And servants would linger by the bars and point and gawk and stare, look at the weirdo, look at this _ thing _, it’s not even human, it’s a freak, it - 

He hugged his arms. Had his mother hugged him? What was her name? What did she look like? Was she nice?

Did Arthur ever hug him? Probably not. He didn’t seem the type for touchy-feely stuff.

Merlin was alone. Alone. Alone like his cage. Alone like those 500 years by the lake. Alone like when he buried Isaac. Alone like every other moment before.

In spite of himself, Merlin got to his feet. Before he could realize what he was doing and stop, his feet acting with minds of their own, he ran out of the room.

Arthur hadn’t tucked into his own room yet, still walking down the hall. Merlin tackled him from behind. 

He melted into Arthur’s firm back and soft shirt, a shirt that was soon dampened by his tears. Arthur stiffened in surprise.

“Merlin?”

“P-please…” he quivered out. It was pathetic, but at this point Merlin really didn’t care. “..don’t leave me...e-everyone - everyone _ leaves _me, don’t…”

Arthur pried Merlin's hands away and spun around to face him. “I’m here,” he said. 

They sat on the floor in the hallway, Merlin sobbing into Arthur’s chest. He didn’t say much, just the occasional “I miss them” or “Don’t leave me” or “I’m scared” or “It hurts”. And Arthur just held him close, arms looped around his skinny, scarred, shaking shoulders. 

If Merlin looked up at him, he would have seen that Arthur was crying too.

Merlin didn’t explain everything right away. Arthur probably would have preferred it that way, but he didn’t have the strength or resilience to confront all his demons at once. So Merlin started small. That night in the hallway, he talked about Richard Tenner.

A few months later, when the two of them were awake before everyone else, Merlin hesitantly talked about Leon and Percival’s deaths.

While they were at the park a few weeks after that, Merlin absently said, “Mary Jane would have liked this.” And Arthur made a joke about Mary Jane from Spider-Man, but Merlin just shook his head and told the story of a wonderful woman who happened to fall victim to Jack the Ripper.

Over time, bit by bit, Merlin told fragments of his past. Sometimes Arthur would say things. Sometimes it was _ I’m sorry _ , or _ That’s horrible _, and sometimes his only response was companionable, sympathetic silence. And that was fine. He sat and stood by Merlin as Merlin gushed his heart out, which was more than enough.

When the heart-to-hearts were over, Merlin would wipe his eyes and Arthur would act like it had never happened. He needed that. The normalcy. And though he never said it, Merlin appreciated that Arthur didn’t treat him like something breakable - even though he was already broken.

It took two years of this slow, painful siphoning process for Merlin to finally bring up the Saxon invasion.

It was a cold day in winter. Ten days previous, Elena had taken a knee and popped a certain special question to Morgan. Everyone was still teasing them both about how much they had bawled like babies. 

Morgan said yes, by the way.

Gwaine was sitting precariously on Percy’s shoulders, star in hand and struggling to place it at the top of the Christmas tree. Lance and Leon were stringing up lights outside, and Elyan was cooking something up in the kitchen. Elena and Merlin were the best cooks in the house, but it was Elyan’s turn to cook (even though everyone was a bit..._ wary _around his cooking).

Morgan, Elena, Arthur, and Merlin were sitting on the couch as ‘Elf’ played on the TV. While the two newly betrothed were too busy cuddling to pay attention, Merlin and Arthur pulled a Mystery Science Theatre 3000 and decided to make fun of everything that happened in the movie instead of taking it seriously.

The smoke alarm went off. Elyan ran out of the kitchen while flapping a burnt oven mitt and yelping all the while. Arthur rushed to neutralize the alarm, while Morgan used her magic - which had weakened considerably during reincarnation - to dowse the flames. 

While everyone laughed and teased Elyan for the incident, Merlin sat there on the couch. Try as he might to ignore it, the smell of smoke had...illicited some unpleasant thoughts.

_ “You see, Lord Barington, absolutely nothing can kill my little pet here. You rip it to shreds, it’ll just piece itself back together.” _

_ “Marvelous! Can I see it in action?” _

_ “Of course you may. How would you like to kill it?” _

_ “Hmm...let’s burn it to ashes.” _

“Merlin!” Arthur shouted. 

What?

Arthur gently picked Merlin’s fingers away from where they were clamped against his eyes. 

Huh. Odd. Why was Merlin sitting against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest and hands over his eyes? Why was he covering his eyes? Why had he pushed himself into the farthest corner of the room, why was his breath so quick, why was his adrenaline - 

Oh. The fire.

“Are you alright?” Gwen asked. “What’s wrong, Merlin?”

Everyone stared at him intently, just like the servants who would pass by his cage and point and stare and laugh and whisper about what kind of animal he was.

He looked away, but could still feel their questioning gazes burn into him. 

“S-sorry,” he said. 

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” Arthur said with an unusual amount of softness in his voice. He helped Merlin to his feet and guided him back onto the couch.

“Was it the fire?” Morgan asked. Her eyes twinkled with empathy. She knew what it was like to have magic in a place that would burn you for it. She probably thought that was where his fear came from.

Despite wishing nothing more than to crawl into a hole and never come out, Merlin nodded. 

Years later, he would never understand why he did it. Why he shakily opened his mouth and divulged his worst memories. Why he spoiled everyone’s fun and told them about his greatest trauma.

Nevertheless, that's exactly what he did. 

“When Gwen died,” Merlin began. Arthur was at his side, hand on his knee in comfort and support. Because that was something Merlin was allowed to have now. _ Comfort _. “The Saxon King didn’t just let me go. And b-because of the magic restraints, I couldn’t escape. He tried to kill me, but everyone knew the legends. ‘Emrys’ means ‘immortal’, and all that.”

Percy, Elyan, and Gwaine were all gathered around now, eyes glistening and faces hardened into attention. All eyes were on him, just like the - 

No. Not at all like the cage. This time, everyone loved him and cared about him and worried for his wellbeing. They didn’t think he was some sort of trinket or animal. He was safe here.

“So he put me in a cage,” Merlin said. His voice quivered and his whole body shook, but the presence of Arthur’s warm hand on his knee grounded him. This was his biggest, feistiest demon, but he could face it. With his friends by his side, he could face it. “I was put on display for everyone to look at and point at as they passed, but no one ever stopped to help.”

He didn’t dare look at their faces. Didn’t dare see what emotions swelled in their eyes.

“Well, Trish helped. She snuck me food scraps. Until...until they found out, and executed her for it. But she was nice. She reminded me that not everyone was out to hurt me.”

_ “I’m sorry I can’t save you.” _

“Every so often, they’d pull me out of my cage and hurt me. Just to see what I could survive. I’m immortal, so everything they did would...the-they couldn’t kill me, you know, and - but they tried. They wanted to see how far they could push it. They wanted to see what I could endure.”

A few gasps rang out in the room. It seemed some people had figured out where this was going.

“I’ve been poisoned, stabbed, eaten alive, torn limb from limb, drowned, beaten, tortured…” He wiped the tears from his eyes, but still couldn’t bring himself to open them. “...a-and yes. Burned. I was burned a few times. They’d turn me to ashes, and then when my body put itself back together, they’d clap the restraints back on and toss me back into my - my cage.”

_ “Do you think it can speak?” _

_ “I don’t know, it just sits in the corner of its cage and cries.” _

_ “What an odd creature.” _

Merlin took a moment to steady his breathing, and wove his fingers between Arthur’s. Maybe Arthur wasn’t fond of the mushy-gushy hand-holding stuff, but Merlin needed this. Teasing could wait until later. 

“But what I hated most was - was the prince. He...he had a name, but I don’t remember it. It’s been too long.”

A new hand reached out to grab the one that wasn’t holding Arthur. “It’s alright,” said a voice - Gwen’s voice.

With her touch reaffirming his conviction, Merlin carried on with the story. “He liked to...hunt me.”

Arthur’s grip tightened. Merlin tried to ignore it.

“He - he would take me out of my cage, and they’d let me loose in the forest. I tried, I tried _ so damn hard _...I just wanted to get away...but then the prince would land a hit. An arrow. He was good with arrows. The arrow went through my face, once. Then he’d pull the arrow out, wait for me to heal, and...and do it again. We’d go for hours like that, until he got bored. And then I was thrown back into the cage again.”

“How did you escape, mate?” Merlin’s eyes were closed, but he could still identify the person who spoke up: Gwaine. His voice was gruff and scratchy in that way it got whenever he was crying. 

“Hunting,” said Merlin. “I came across a unicorn, and it offered me a ride. Took me to...to Avalon Lake. And Anhora - the unicorn keeper - was there, and he removed my restraints. I stayed there for a...for a few hundred years. At least until the Crusades started up.” He punctuated the end of his story with a noncommittal shrug, hoping in futility that it would lessen the tension.

One minute.

Two minutes.

Three minutes.

Everyone sat in silence. No one spoke. Not a sound was to be heard, save a few sharp, tearful breaths. 

Merlin opened his eyes. 

When had Lance and Leon come in? He didn’t hear them open the door. And yet, here they were, crying silently. Everyone was crying. 

What happened? Everyone had been smiling and laughing just a few minutes earlier. Oh god, he’d done this. He’d ruined a happy, joyous night and made it into a pity fest that was all about him and his problems.

Just as Merlin opened his mouth to apologize, Arthur cut him off with a hug. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered fiercely. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

_ “I’m sorry I can’t save you.” _

Merlin wanted to push him away, to beg him never to say that because those had been Trish’s last words to him, but he didn’t. He just sunk into the embrace. 

Another pair of arms wrapped around him. Gwen. 

Then Lance.

Then Gwaine. 

Then Percy, and Elyan, and Morgan, and Elena, and Leon. 

On the TV, credits rolled. Outside the window, snow fell. In the kitchen, dinner burned.

And Merlin wasn’t whole, he wasn’t perfect, and he was a long way from being alright. He had been through a lot of crap, and had a lot of trauma to work through. 

But it was a start, at least. Opening up. Talking about it. Holding his friends, who were here, alive, not dead, and certainly not going to hurt him. It was a start. He was a wreck at the moment, but he would be okay. 

He smiled. Yeah. He would be okay. 

**Author's Note:**

> Is this OOC? Does the plot or dialogue make no sense! Congrats! You're not the only one who thinks that! 
> 
> Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't consider posting this for others to see. Especially since I only just thought up the idea this morning and it's only been through 3 drafts (most of my stuff goes through about 7 drafts). But it's been bugging me all day and I HAD to write it, and I think I'll lose my hecks if I don't do something with this. So here you are. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it, and please be sure to give your feedback! Have a nice day :)


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